Talking When You're Not There
by sevenpercent
Summary: Set after the Scandal in Belgravia, Sherlock explains his relationship to John , as seen from the point of view of someone who is not only a genius, but also somewhere on the Autistic Spectrum and just a bit sociopathic. No Slash; John's POV.


**Talking when you're not there**

**Summary:** Set after the Scandal in Belgravia, this explores how Sherlock explains his relationship to John , as seen from the point of view of someone who is not only a genius, but also somewhere on the Autistic Spectrum and just a bit sociopathic. No Slash; John's POV.

* * *

I am typing up the blog entry, trying to change names to protect the guilty, and trying to spare the blushes of people who would be able to guess just who _the woman_ was from personal experience. Sherlock is in his chair, laptop balanced on his knees, typing away with his usual blinding speed on something obscure for his blog. I have reached the point in the case where I'd been sent off to the dead hiker's crime scene because he never went out for anything less than a 'six'. I remember asking when we were supposed to have had that conversation, and been royally confused.

"Sherlock, how often do you talk to me when I'm not here? " It is a question mildly put, but it has really perplexed me. "I mean, I know that you get distracted by cases, but really is it so much to ask that you notice whether I am actually here?" I decide it isn't worth hiding my hurt feelings from the detective, who would be able to deduce it no matter what I did.

"Do you really think that I am so oblivious to my surroundings that I wouldn't be aware of your presence?" Sherlock looks equally perplexed, with that little crease between his brows that only appears when he is a bit annoyed. I am annoyed, too, so I do not hesitate. I put my laptop down and get to my feet.

"Well, look at it from my point of view, if that is even remotely possible for you," I try to keep the sarcasm in my voice down to acceptable levels. "You ignore me on a routine basis, especially when I ask you not to store body parts in unmarked containers in the fridge. You don't even acknowledge my requests to avoid experiments in the kitchen that involve explosives, acids or poisonous chemicals. And, even when it's in your own best interests, you don't respond when I ask you to sleep or eat something. So, yeah, I do kind of think it would be entirely in character for you to forget when I've gone out of the room, or even out of the flat. You accused me of not listening to a conversation that you thought we'd had, when I wasn't in London at the time; I'd gone to Dublin for two days!"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. Of course, I ignore background noise, even _yours, _John! But, when I observe you, I also _see_. Most of what you've just mentioned doesn't really matter, not even to you, certainly not to me. When it does, I listen and hear you. Don't be obtuse. For once, just think it through about why I might talk to you when you aren't there."

I stop pacing my anger out across the room, sit back down in my chair and glare back angrily at Sherlock. "We aren't all the World's Only Consulting Detective, Sherlock, better spell it out for us lesser mortals."

"I know you are not here when you are not, John. But, I might talk as if you were, because I wish that you were. When I don't have the real John here, I have …an imaginary one. Just thinking through what I think you would say is…helpful". This is delivered in a quiet, even thoughtful tone- which is so unusual for Sherlock that I am momentarily surprised. I think back to an argument we had when twelve people died in a tower block explosion , and I had asked then "Just so I know, do you care at all?" As upset as I had been over the loss of innocent life, there was an unuttered subtext then of "…for me?" Sherlock's answer then had been disappointing.

So, I am a little suspicious now. "Sherlock, am I getting this right? Or are you just about to have a laugh at my expense? Thinking of an absent friend is rather close to sentiment for you, and I thought you would never succumb to something like that. Are you actually saying that you _care_ whether I am here or not?"

Sherlock huffs his annoyance, "oh, what does that bloody word _care_ actually _mean_, John? How can I know that what I feel is the same sort of thing that you call 'feelings'? I'm not 'normal', John! I can't know if what I experience is what you do. Actually, on second thought, I am almost certain that it can't be the same."

I realise with a shock that Sherlock was admitting to being different- the first time I had ever heard such a confession. And, I am intrigued. "Well, the only way to figure that out is to explain it to me. What does it feel like to you? What do _you_ mean?"

Sherlock sighs, puts his lap top down and now he is the one that starts pacing. He refuses eye contact with me, as his hands begin to move to punctuate his words. "When normal people feel, when _you_ 'feel', John, it's squashed up, all in one, no differentiations between physical chemistry colliding with memories and received wisdom, taught to you. You've been told that this is what something 'feels' like, and they give it a name, so when it happens you say "aha, I must be having this feeling". You don't think about what you experience. That isn't a luxury I have. I asked you at Angelo's that first night, what do 'normal' people do in their 'normal' lives? Really, John, I have no idea. I don't think or 'feel' that way, so it is highly likely that when you accuse me of having 'no feelings', you are quite right. I don't."

I digest this, trying to hide my disappointment. Before I give up, I just ask quietly, "so, forget about normal people, what _do_ you feel? What's it mean to you? Help me understand what's going on in that head of yours."

Sherlock's pacing stops. He looks out of the window, again avoiding looking at me. "It means I am _aware_ of you. I know exactly what kind of day you've had by the sound of your key in the lock downstairs, how you close the front door, the sound of your first step on the stairs to the flat. Why do I know this? Because I have heard and remember every time you have come home, the hundreds of times, so I know the significance of each of these sounds to your mood, and the day's likely events that cause that mood.

"It means I know when you are just moaning about the fridge knowing you can because you've had to be 'the nice doctor' at the clinic dealing with other people's moans, or when it is a trigger for something more important. You aren't aware of the tone of your voice the way I am. You've said my name thousands of times, and I deduce what you are thinking each time and how it is different, depending on what you are thinking. I _hear_ you, John. I know how many breaths per minute you take when you are blogging; I know because I count them. And I know how the rate slows down when you are watching crap telly. I have a complete dictionary of 'John's sighs', and can tell that the one you make when you drink the first cup of tea in the morning is completely different from the one you make when you have your last cup before bed. And I know when the sigh says I've done something that upsets or irritates you. I don't often understand what it is I've done wrong, but I know it is …a bit not good.

"I _smell_ you; I know the brand of your soap, your shampoo, your aftershave, your laundry detergent. I know your blood type, but I also know what your blood smells like, too, and it is one of the more distressing scents in my library of odours. Did you know that the your scent changes when we are on a crime scene and you figure something important out about the corpse lying in front of you?

"I _see_ you, too. I can tell by the wrinkle that appears just there over your left eyebrow," and Sherlock now turns to me and points one of his long, lithe fingers at that side of my face, "it means that Harry has just sent you a text and you know from the typos she's drinking again. That particular crease is reserved for her, no one else."

"John, I am _aware_ of all these things about you and thousands more that you no doubt would find weird, even disturbing by so called 'normal standards'. I notice stuff like this about other people too, because I can never, ever turn it off. I'm hypersensitive. But, I intentionally delete almost all of that as soon as I sense it with most people. I have to, it's so boring, but I've not deleted a thing about you."

I just look at Sherlock, my eyes widening with surprise.

"Yes, that does make you different. There have been a few other people in my life like this. I had to do it about my father, to avoid his anger and disappointment in me taking rather unpleasant forms. And, I did it for Mummy because I trusted her to know what was best for me. I used to do it for Mycroft, but stopped when I was fifteen. And I do a little of it for Lestrade, because I need his cases as much as he needs my help in solving them, and being aware of him helps me avoid pissing him off too much."

"But, you're different. I notice you because I _want_ to, not because I have to. That bears no resemblance, I am sure, to what you or other 'normal' people would define as _caring_, but it's the way I experience you. Knowing all this about you, and wanting to know more, to know everything about you, is important to me. I don't know why, it just is. Certainly, it helps me live alongside you; it makes us function better as a team. You are helpful to my work; you've become a part of it, even when you are not actually working on a case with me, because you're off doing that doctor thing you do. So I _try_ with you; I am willing to make an effort that I just can't be bothered with when it comes to most other people. Is this egocentric, solipsist, narcissist, manipulative?" Here he makes little quote marks with his fingers in the air.

"Yes, to all of those labels that 'normal' people apply to me. I am sure that they are right; after all, I am a sociopath, even if a high functioning one. I'm not like this because I am a lazy sod or a cruel monster; it truly is just what I am. So, all this is probably not what you would classify as a _feeling_; it's a gravitational pull, a chemical bonding I don't understand. I find you...not boring, and just a bit fascinating. Being able to keep you happy enough not to leave Baker Street is even …important to me."

"So, when I am alone, I like to imagine you are there with me. I don't actually talk to myself out loud; I've learned how not to be that odd, but I like to imagine what you would say in reply to what I am thinking. And, let's face it, you are a lot more interesting on that subject than the skull."

That aside brings the chuckle from me that Sherlock was probably hoping for, some way to break the tension. But, he isn't finished. "John, I see you, I remember you; you are here with me in my head, wherever your body might be."

There is only one answer for me to make. "That was…amazing. Thank you," I say quietly, and we both return to our laptops and I try to focus on my typing again.


End file.
